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Not long ago I had some household items to give away, so I started a thread on my favorite local group, which is part of a very large internet dating site.  I posted my disguised but still understandable email and IM names in case anyone wanted to contact me with questions.

Before even a day passed the items found a new home; I posted a final message on the thread to let people know.  Our board is extremely active, so within a few hours, that post dropped from the main page into archived obscurity.

Are we clear so far?

A week after the post archived itself, I received an IM from someone called “Joe” with a string of numbers following his name.  Usually I don’t respond to IMs from people I don’t know, but this time I did.  My unknown correspondent mentioned my beauty, offering up details of a (quite modest, really) picture I have posted on AFF of my torso clad in a spaghetti-strap cami.  “Do I know you from AFF?” I asked, not entirely immune to compliments on my astounding gorgeousness, however random or undeserved.

“You don’t exactly know me,” he typed.

“Have we met?”  This wasn’t, believe it or not, a euphemism for “fucked.”  I keep careful records of these men.  Really.  In a spreadsheet.

“Not yet,” he responded, and he followed it up with the emoticon which looks like a laughing devil.  He mentioned again the “hotttness” of my picture.

I inquired as to how he came into possession of my IM name.  He danced around the issue for several replies while continuing to comment on my physical perfection.  This tested my patience more than a little.  But I was procrastinating with work, so I pressed on.  He didn’t want to admit it, but it finally cam out that he’d come across it while combing through our groups’ archive.  “Oh, are you a member of the group?” I asked him.

No, he answered.  He was just looking around. And he came across my picture.  My very hottt picture.

So let’s summarize.  Man who is not a member of our happy little group begins perusal of archived posts, eventually finding a post with my far-more-hot-than-I’d-realized picture.  And my IM.  Which he used not to inquire about my household items, but instead to compliment me on my hotttness. Ohhhhhkay.

By the time my brain had gathered this information, my new correspondent was typing again.  “I’d love to meet you,” he said.  “I’d like to see if you’re as sexy as your picture.”

“I’m not,” I considered writing, but I tried another tack.  “Joe,” I asked.  “Did you happen to read my profile?”

“Yeah, it was hot, we have alot in common,” he wrote, and I am indeed quoting him exactly.

“Did you read the part where I wrote that I was happy with the relationships I’m in?  And not currently looking for any new ones?”

There was a long pause.  I surmised that he was reading my profile again, with more care this time.  “Oh, I see that now.”  I’ll note that the phrases in question are printed at the top of my profile.  In large letters.  In bold.  Surrounded by stars.

“It’s not a problem,” I told him, and then began to extol the many virtues of participating in the local groups as a means to meeting awesome women.

But apparently he’d heard the only words he was interested in.  “Hey, gotta go,” he typed, and as quickly as he’d arrived in my life he was gone.

I suppose after participating in that particular dating site for such a long time now, I shouldn’t be surprised by the actions of some of its members.  But even after all this time, I can’t help but be slightly annoyed, annoyed and irritated and irked that someone would go to such lengths to get into contact with another human being and then act like such a fool.

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If you’d crept up the stairs on a recent chill October afternoon then peeked into the door at the top of the stairs, you would have observed the following:

One bedroom, extremely messy; an Esse forgotten on the floor; a bottle of lube tipped on its side; and clothes strung along both sides of a bed.  In the bed you would have detected a fluffy chocolate down comforter pulled up over a pair of lovers lying still in the dim autumn sunlight.

You might have thought the lack of movement odd.  A year ago I’d also have thought it strange, but now indulging in a brief nap between rounds of fervent fucking seems the most lovely thing possible, especially on a cold afternoon turning dark too soon due to impending rain.

We’d both had long weeks by the time we came together at midday: family obligations, travel and the first colds of the season left us wrung out.  “I need a nap,” M murmured after coming for the third or fourth time, so we found the pillows I’d earlier flung out of my way and snuggled into a spot not too dampened by gushing.  He used my breast as a pillow, I rested my cheek against the top of his head, and within moments we were off to sleep.

Except that I didn’t fall fully to sleep.  I dozed only lightly and only for a moment before a cat wedged himself between our bodies.  M’s breathing was soft and regular, and I alternated between stroking his arm and the cat’s head for twenty minutes of undisturbed, perfect rest.

Finally the cat stirred and stretched, waking my lover.  After a moment of silence:  “This wasn’t exactly what you had in mind, was it?”

“No,” I answered, “but it’s perfect.”

This wasn’t what he had in mind either when he met me eons ago, wielding a red dildo and offering to fuck his ass even before exchanging names.  It’s not what either of us expected, but it works.

I love how it works.

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Ninety minutes into a two-hour romp which was growing more rather than less intense as we progressed, he grabbed my ankles, spread my legs wide and slid into me.

I had (barely) the wherewithal to haul the Eroscillator up from under the bed and get it onto my clit before he started slamming into me.  As wound up as I was, it took only a few moments for the combination of cock and toy, lust and love, flesh and power to work their magic.

When I came it was with a prodigious gush, hot and powerful up from my center.  He caught it on the instroke, pushing the fiery water* briefly deeper into me and then letting it pour forth, burning pussy and thighs as it splashed out.

“Did you feel that?” I asked in wonder, and of course he had; how could he not have felt such a heady cuntful of heated fluid meeting cock and balls?

—-

*Do you know what word used to be here?  Can you guess?  Here’s the answer.

—-

Want to help stop California’s Proposition 8 and start your holiday shopping early?  Check out Tony Comstock’s blog for more information on how to help and get your sexy movies on all at the same time.

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The really cool folks at Blowfish.com have eight lil’ slices of heaven to share with us this week:

• The Crash Pad
• Superfreak
• In Search of the Wild Kingdom
• Bondage Boob Tube
• Tail of a Bondage Model
• Bride of Sin
• Crash Pad Series, Volume 1
• Crash Pad Series, Volume 2

I’ll choose eight (eight!) folks from those who comment below.  Please use a working email address, and comment only if you’re willing to fork over your shipping address to the very fine folks at Blowfish, who will guard your address as if it was a lock of hair clipped from the head of a newborn child.

I’ve personally seen the Crash Pad work, and *fanning self* damn.  HOT.

Anyhow.

I’ll notify the winners after the contest ends on Monday, October 27th at 12:01am.  Happy swagging, and thanks to Blowfish.com for the generosity!

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I’ve got this problem.  Being as isolated in life as I am, there’s really no one else to whom I can bring this issue, except, dear readers, to you.  Can you help?  Will you help?

I offer a hearty thank you in advance.

Here’s the thing.  I’m fast approaching forty.  I’ve maintained the happy fiction since this blog’s inception that I was “on the cusp” of forty, but now?  Now I’m actually on the cusp.

And here on the cusp, things they are a’changin’.  Things are getting just a little scary.  Now I’m not the type of girl who really much cares about wrinkles, or gray hair, or the sundry other slings and arrows that time casts down upon our bodies.

But this?  This is different.  This involves my hair — more specifically, the texture of my hair.

You see, when I was younger, I sported a head of the silkiest curls you could possibly imagine.  How did I keep them so lovely, you ask?  Ah, it was a grueling routine.  Let me tell you it:

1.  Wash hair with combination shampoo/conditioner.
2.  Rapidly shake head after shower is turned off.
3.  Run hands through hair.
4.  Go on merry way.

And that, my friends, was it.  That’s all it took.  My hair would fetchingly curl about my face and stay exactly like that until the next time I took to the shower. Or at least that’s how I remember it.

But now my hair is old.  It’s lost its sheen, its glow.  Unless I deep-condition it (hourly), the silkiness from days of lore is long gone.  Sigh.

Usually I am ok with this.  I take the loss of shine, the wrinkles, the (Alleged!  It’s not yet verified!) age spot on my hand as markers of increased wisdom.  However, I cannot bear one side effect of my impendingly old-lady hair.

Apparently I have a tendency to thrash during sex.  I’m not aware of it.  I think I’m lying totally still, so as to keep my (imagined) hugely-swollen clit in as much contact as is possible with my lover’s tongue, or my legs cranked as wide apart as they’ll go without disjointing.  I’m off in The Land of Orgasms, and it must be the rule of that land that when there, I thrash.

With the texture my hair used to be, I could have thrashed for weeks at a time without any problem, but now thrashing causes problems.  Thrashing raises on the back of my head a thing which most closely resembles this.  Which is, in case you don’t recognize it, a rat’s nest.  And is, when applied to hair, gross.

It’s not an attractive look post-sex.  Nor is it easy to rectify.  I am forced to attack it in stages:  fingers, brush, wide-tooth comb, fine-tooth comb, shower, conditioner, conditioner, conditioner.  This puts quite a crimp in my plans (and his) when bacon is on the agenda.

I could perhaps convince my lover to restrain my head as he’s doing evil things to my lower half.  But that doesn’t sound like much fun.  Or I could make conscious effort not to thrash.  Again, doesn’t sound so great.

So I ask you:  What does one do when one’s hair has grown too unreliable for sex thrashing?  All reasonable suggestions welcome below.

——

Check out Butterfly Temptress’ series Live.Love.Cancer on Best Sex Bloggers.  She’s just posted part six.

——

Stay tuned for swag tomorrow.  I’ve not heard back from three of our winners from last week, so I’m going to be selecting and emailing some new winners later today — check your email.

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“I’m giving this,” my eldest proclaimed, waving a twenty under my nose.

My eyebrows went up.  “You sure about that?  Twenty dollars is a lot of money, baby.  The note said they wanted your class to donate change–coins, not paper money.”

“It’s fine!  I’ve got plenty of money!” she said airily, and in a flash I saw her whole life played out with remarkable similarity to her father’s.

Fear inspired me to direct the child to bring forth all her cash.  I fetched a pen and a couple  envelopes.  “Count it all,” I told her.  “Let’s see how much you’ve earned in allowances these past few months.”

In two minutes she’d produced neatly divided piles of cash and coins.  She named a sum that seemed excessive for a child of her age, and once again I rued the unwisely-generous nature of her father, who tosses her fives, tens and the occasional twenty without backing up the gifts with proper education and instruction.

“Ok baby, let’s make a budget for your money,” I said.  “Christmas is coming up soon.  Let’s make a list of who you are going to want to buy presents for.”  On one envelope she wrote their names and the amounts she intended to spend on each person, then she carefully placed the total into the envelope.

“I’ll be your bank,” I told her.  “I’ll keep your money for the few weeks, and I’ll even give you interest for it.”  She worried that I’d “use” her money, so we had a short discussion of how banks guarantee that their customers will get their money back, with a fee for having “used” it.

Next we prepared an envelope for deposit in her actual bank account, an account which I set up for her years ago and into which she’s made semi-regular contributions.  Then she counted up what was left.  “I want to keep some money too,” she fretted, “in case I find a Polly I want.”

“Sure, honey.  You need to keep some money just to spend.”

After some not inconsiderable angst, she divided up her remaining money between a envelope marked “Donation” and her own purse.  “Good job baby.  You just made a budget.”  She beamed, in her own characteristically low-key fashion.  And then I offered to show her how I keep track of my money.

I pulled up a couple of spreadsheets and my online banking screen.  “Is that ‘x’ dollars?” she asked, pointing to one particularly large payment.

I peered at the screen.  “No honey, it’s ‘x’ hundred dollars.  See, these are the things I need to pay every month.  Here’s the money I make every month.  And here,” I pointed to the online banking screen, “are the bank accounts we use to pay our bills.  See how I have several accounts?”

She nodded, still aghast that the cost of our house was one hundred times what she expected.  “This account is for our day-to-day stuff, like groceries.  This is for some big bills I know we’ll have in the next several months.  And this is for emergencies.”

“What kind of emergencies?” she wondered.

“Like if our roof had to be fixed,” I said, making a note to call the roofer before the leak in my bedroom grew worse.  “Or if we needed a new furnace.  Or if one of us got very sick.”

She nodded, and I continued.  “It’s just like your accounts.  You have some money to use now,” I pointed to her purse, “and some to use later,” I said, nodding toward her Christmas envelope.  “And in the bank you have some to use much later, or for emergencies.  And you have some to donate.”  She nodded.  “Doesn’t it feel good to have your money organized?”

“Yeah,” she said.  “I was going to give away too much.”

“More than you could afford to give away, yes,” I corrected gently, as she grabbed her purse and zipped off to play with her siblings.

And as has happened so many times when I’ve attempted to pass on some hard-earned wisdom to my child, I’m left feeling as though I’ve said way too much and not nearly enough all at once.

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This morning my local radio personalities discussed a potential new television program hosted by Jeff Probst of “Survivor” fame.  Their reactions and the reactions of their callers were so strongly negative that I had to find out more:

The show, Live Like You’re Dying, will feature a person who has been given a terminal diagnosis with a finite amount of time to live and “take them on the last adventure of their life,” according to Probst. That adventure will include reunions with lost friends or formerly feuding family members, a “legacy moment” that will ensure their name carries on forever, and living out a personal dream.

Read the full post’s comments for a condemnation of how offensive, morbid and exploitative folks imagine this show will be.  I have a feeling that many reading here might  feel the same way.  However, I don’t see it that way at all.  In fact I see enormous potential for such a show.  Here’s why.

We assign great (sometimes even sacred) meaning to life’s most emotional events:  the birth of a child, the removal of a foreskin, the consumption of bread and juice, the toss of a cap, the placing of rings on fingers, the signing of papers.  We want others to know. We talk and write about them.  We remember.

We have a long history of recording and sharing these significant life events.  Moments of extreme emotion are shared with friends, families and even strangers by inviting them physically to witness.  If they can’t be with us, we take pictures and video so that we can share.

And not only are we interested in our own life events, but we’ve also begun eagerly to watch strangers’ accounts of searching for true love, getting married, giving birth, raising children, raising more children, losing weight, telling secrets, eating bugs and just plain living.

I grant that none of the above programs may be stellar examples of televised brilliance, but they do give evidence to our deep fascination with observing how our fellow humans deal with the business of being human.

Sure, parts are contrived, but don’t we always endeavor to look our best for the sake of history?  Who hasn’t cozied up to a disliked family member for the camera, or ignored discomfort to give a good bit of video, or sucked in a stomach or stood up straighter or jockeyed for the best angle?  The camera captures an idealized slice, not the actual moment.

And so I wonder, given our enduring interest in sharing our own and others’ emotional events, why we’d hesitate in turning our attention to the end of a life?  How is this “sick” or “obscene,” as some commentators labeled it?  Is there something intrinsically private about dying?

Or are we simply terrified of what we might see?  Are we scared of acknowledging pain, loss, grief?  Are we so weak that we can glibly agree to bear witness to the joyful events but not the tragic ones?  Do we pretend that if we pay no attention to death, it won’t pay attention to us?

Silly, that.

Some argue that a show like this might exploit the terminally ill.  You could possibly make that case if somehow the producers managed to ambush patients moments after they received their diagnoses, shoved microphones in their faces, lingered over their tears, then ran footage without consent.  That’s exploitative.

But this would feature volunteers who (presumably) would be fully aware that their and their families’ actions would be scrutinized my millions of couch-bound critics.  They’re no more being exploited than are the unkempt folks who ask Clinton and Stacy or Tim Gunn for style advice, or overweight celebrities who let the world watch them suffer and sweat.  They’ve made a choice to open their lives — or deaths — and their choice removes all question of exploitation.

I actually think a show such as this has the potential to be enormously beautiful as well as educational.  I would love to see how different families handle end-of-life issues.  How do the dying define their experiences’ ultimate meaning?  This is what I’d hope to see.

Of course, even the best of ideas could be ruined by unscrupulous producers, overzealous product placement, miserable writing or a host of other intangibles impossible to predict months in advance.  Any of those things might make this show an abysmal failure.

But I hold out hope that it can be lovely, compelling and provocative.  I hope it encourages people to talk about death with calm compassion instead of whispered terror. I hope it portrays terminally ill people sucking the marrow of what’s left and readying themselves for the end, because that would be ten-thousand times more soul-searing than the eating of any bug or the emptying of any closet.

Is this too much to hope for?

——

Thank you Tony Comstock, Wendy Blackheart and of course Butterfly Temptress for talking with me about this today.

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I’m only doing this because they tell me that the entire internet will hate me otherwise, and we just can’t have that.  My tagger tells me, and I quote:  “When the [word redacted] of a viral questionnaire is smeared on the MySQL of a fellow blogger/bloggee, said recipient of said [word redacted]-smearing must in turn respond in accordance with its viral insistence.”

Sigh.  So here are the rulez:

• Link to your tagger and list these rules on your blog.
• Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog - some random, some weird.
• Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blog.
• Let them know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Seven facts eh?  You say you want seven facts?  I’ll give you seven facts:

1.  A collision between a coffee table of ill repute and my smallest toe resulted in the only broken bone I’ve ever had.  The incident gave me a renewed appreciation for the pinkie-toe’s outstanding job of keeping me upright.

2.  As a teenager, I used to masturbate by (barely) straddling the corner of my dresser.  I could watch myself in the mirror as I did it.  Can you imagine the porno headline?  “Barely Legal Hottie Frottage, $19.99/month recurring!”

3.  My most recent threesome, which happened just weeks ago, was with the same woman who was in my very first threesome some seventeen years ago.

4.  Most days I don’t brush my hair.  ::shrug::  I shrug because I’m not entirely certain that anyone could tell whether I do or don’t.

5.  I have in the past week made a “fake” account on a social networking site so as to check out the activities of someone I don’t very much like.

6.  I would lick Tabatha Coffey’s shoes.  Srsly.

7.  I look forward just a little too much for the weekends when my kids stay at their dad’s house.  I probably shouldn’t count down the days hours minutes quite as enthusiastically as I do.  It’s wrong, isn’t it?  Very very wrong?

There, Snarling Misanthrope, you have your list.  No need for [word redacted]-flinging here.

But I won’t tag anyone.  You can’t make me.  So there!

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